


A Pirate's Life for Us

by jillyfae



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Friendship, M/M, Multi, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-21 12:09:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 6,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1549982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No politics, no Magisters, just the open sea and sky.</p><p>The ficlets collected here aren't in any particular order, and don't always fit together in the same continuity, but they reflect the balance of the potential threesome that I adore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ridiculously pretty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a "make me choose" prompt in which I singularly refused to choose, and instead put Sebastian/Fenris and Sebastian/Isabela together. Because I like that sort of thing.
> 
> /ot3 feels

To her crew, Fenris was first mate.  Sleek and deadly and sharp-eared, as much a good luck charm as any ship’s cat; as much of a shadowy threat behind her every word as any Captain could desire.

Not that she needed anyone else to be threatening  _for_ her, of course, but it was fun, watching the squabbies squirm before that sharp green scowl of his.

And when they couldn’t avoid a boarding action, the swing of his sword and those sharp impossible gauntlets plunging into someone  _else’s_  chest was always good for morale.

In port, it was Sebastian’s turn.  Clean and handsome and more polite than any Harbormaster ever expected from a ‘freelancer’, capable of the most arrogant lift of his chin as he stared down his nose at any merchant that tried to cheat them, and then that stupidly sweet smile would break free for any poor lost townie looking for a ship or a deal or a helping hand towards a reputable inn.

She’d been more than a decent enough Captain on her own, but she had to admit, it was surprisingly pleasant to have the usual waterlogged riff-raff remember hers as a ship it was good to work with, or on, with decent prizes and a reputable crew.  To have her regular Ports of Call looking forward to her ship’s return, in fact.

Or at the very least looking forward to the sight of Sebastian cheerfully humming as he strolled down the docks, Fenris striding along silently behind him, a hint of a smile as he tilted his head and listened.

Perhaps she was the one who enjoyed that, actually.   

But they were just so very  _pretty_  … who could blame her?


	2. Smiles

Over the years, Fenris had grown to appreciate Sebastian’s strength.  A strong bow arm for shooting, a strong back for carrying the dregs and loot of whatever remained after the latest misadventure Hawke had subjected them to enduring.  
  
A strong stomach for The Hanged Man’s ale on Wicked Grace night, for all he didn’t indulge much.  
  
A strong sense of humor, never insulted by Isabela’s teasing, willing to discuss almost anything with Hawke, or Aveline, or even with the babbling blood mage.  
  
Not that Fenris himself appreciated much from Merrill, but he had to admit that she was easier to deal with than the abomination, especially when she and Sebastian were oh-so-politely dancing around questions regarding each others’ faiths.  
  
 _Perhaps manners are worth something after all, sometimes._  
  
But for all he thought he’d gotten used to the noble in their midst, it always startled him to watch the man smile.  It was such a sweet expression, warm and soft and kind, unlike the arrogance Fenris had seen in every other noble, the self-righteous pride that lit up the faces of most Sisters he’d ever heard preaching.  
  
Not that Sebastian wasn’t perfectly capable of arrogance and self-righteous pride.  But never when he smiled.  
  
It was almost always an expression that crept across Sebastian’s face when he saw someone else being happy.  The few times Merril won a hand of cards, the days Hawke got to relax with friends, rather than fighting or dancing attendance on Kirkwall’s elite, any time when Varric managed a particularly good maneuver against the Merchant’s Guild, anything at all that made Isabela laugh.  
  
The entire day of Aveline’s wedding, especially when he caught a glimpse of Donnic’s smile or Aveline’s eyes.  
  
Fenris had no idea if he’d ever inspired that look on Sebastian’s face himself, but as he wasn’t particularly prone to acting cheerful, he rather doubted it.  
  
That thought made something ache somewhere in Fenris’ chest.  Not for himself.  He was used to who he was, and who he’d been, and wouldn’t have known what to do with anything resembling Isabela’s lust for life.  But for Sebastian, whose smile only ever made an appearance for other people, a reflection of someone else’s joy, never his own.  
  
Fenris rather wanted to see how Sebastian would smile for himself.  If it would be different than the one he gave to everyone else.  Perhaps it was selfish, but Fenris had had so few friends in his life, it seemed important that he be able to see them happy.  
  
Be able to help them to be happy, if possible.  
  
Of course, he had no actual idea how to do such a thing, just the twitch across his palms, wanting something he could do with his hands besides kill, wanting something he could give to show his … appreciation?  Was that even the right word?  
  
Fenris spent the next little while watching.  The archer was remarkably quiet about himself in company.  It was difficult to figure out what he himself would like, rather than something that would simply be a reflection of his past, something from Starkhaven or the Chantry, something for a noble or a Brother, something for an archer or a rogue.  Fenris didn’t want to see the formal smile of duty and memory, didn’t want to give something practical that would apply to a job or a skill.  He wanted to do something for Sebastian.  
  
“Scowling even more than usual tonight, elf.”  Varric squinted a grin over his mug of ale.  ”The wine closer to vinegar than you like?”  
  
Fenris snorted softly into his cup.  Corff’s wine was always more like vinegar than he’d prefer.  ”I don’t know dwarf, does the ale taste less like piss than usual?”  
  
“Not really, but I’m used to it.”  The ‘ _as are you_ ’ was obvious enough in Varric’s tone that it didn’t need to be said.  
  
Fenris only shrugged.  If he wasn’t sure how to describe the restless feeling in his head to himself, he certainly didn’t have the words to drag it out into the air for the dwarf’s perusal.  
  
Varric didn’t quite roll his eyes, and he seldom bothered to hide his curiousity, but at least he generally refrained from prying for the sordid details.    
  
 _Except with Hawke.  He seems to enjoy Hawke’s sordid details almost as much as Isabela does._  
  
Fenris was practiced enough at hiding his thoughts that he didn’t stiffen at the steady tread of familiar foot-steps entering the room, didn’t provide any further observations for Varric to use.  When the steps paused he leaned back, just enough that he didn’t need to turn his head to see Sebastian, pausing in the doorway to look around.  
  
 _Is he checking for traps, waiting for an invitation, or just wondering if Isabela’s up to something worse than usual?_  
  
And then Sebastian’s gaze landed on Fenris, and there it was, a curve up on just one side of his mouth, a tilt of his chin, eyes soft even as the wrinkles beside them deepened.  
  
 _Oh._

Apparently he didn’t need to do anything at all.  What a strange thought.  Friendship went both ways.

Fenris nodded at the empty chair beside him, feeling his own face ease as he smiled back.


	3. gambling

Fenris narrowed his eyes, staring across the table at their Chantry compatriot.  He could  _feel_ Varric’s eyes flicker, taking in his change in expression, but he decided he didn’t care about that tonight.

There were more important things in life than winning Wicked Grace.   _Especially since the abomination already lost his meager pile of coins to Isabela._ Fenris was going to figure out Sebastian Vael.

The almost-Brother was always so very  _earnest_ and  _sincere_ and it ought to have been five different kinds of annoying, and yet.  It wasn’t.  He was actually nice.  And meant it, polite and soft-spoken to  _everyone._ Even the ridiculous blood-mage elf.

Right up until the moment someone dealt out a hand of cards, and that calm Chantry smile disappeared in favor of a flash of a smirk and a sparkle in his eyes and he’d been known to out-bluff  _Varric._

He’d scoop up his winnings at the end of the night, and then promptly split them equally around the table, say something dull and pious, swallow the last of his watered wine,  _dreadful stuff, Corff’s wine,_  and wave goodnight.

But the next time Hawke called, he’d answer, cheerfully stalking through muck and sand and caves and blood, as exhilarated as any of them by the rush of adrenalin, the thrill of the fight.  And he was  _good_ at the fight.  Fenris quite enjoyed a well placed arrow through a slaver’s neck; it was the sort of thing to endear him to a man.  

But then Sebastian would pray over their bodies, head bowed and lips moving silently, which was less pleasant.

_No one ever prayed for their victims._

Only Sebastian did that too.  

He also kept a stash of coppers for when the beggar children swarmed in Darktown, somehow managing to flick them out into the crowd without any of the little pickpockets figuring out where he hid his pouch.  

It was remarkably easy to forget, with his platitudes and his shiny white armour making him a target, that his fingers were as nimble as Isabela’s, his tongue just as capable of spinning a believable lie as Varric.  

_Rogues._

Fenris aimed his scowl at the pirate and the dwarf as well.  Maybe it wasn’t just Sebastian he didn’t understand.  They were all charm and smiles, right until the moment they shot or stabbed someone from the shadows, right until the moment the wrong joke went a line too far and the flash of sorrow or anger darkened their eyes.

Fenris preferred honest rage, the clean straight lines of a sword.

Suddenly Isabela laughed, throwing her head back and her cards down on the table, sliding the pot towards Sebastian.  Fenris couldn’t help a smile at the sound, at the answering wink as Sebastian accepted the forfeit, at Varric’s rough grumble as he pretended annoyance and started to shuffle for the next hand.  

Perhaps they were entertaining, at the very least.  That might be good enough, for now.


	4. reading lessons

Fenris scowled at the book, fingers resting on the cover, lingering against the leather rather than opening it to spread the pages.

He’d asked for this, true.

But still.

“It will get better.”  Sebastian’s warm voice eased into the room, soft beneath the sound of his footsteps, boots firm against the thin rug upon the floor.  ”With practice.”

Fenris snorted softly.  So both Hawke and Sebastian kept insisting.  But he was tired of waiting, tired of always struggling for so little reward.

Not that he was going to stop.

But some days it was difficult to start.

“Perhaps a slight change is in order?”  Sebastian was close enough now to reach out, his hands placed beside Fenris’ upon the book, so precise, not the slightest brush of skin.

He never touched first.  Always waited.  Always so careful.

_Until he isn’t._

But now was not the time for that sort of thought, memories of skin and sweat, especially as the gentle tug on the book between his fingers was, at least for now, perfectly smooth and controlled.  Fenris let go, let himself admire the slight smile Sebastian gave him before turning towards the bookshelves in the house library, muttering softly under his breath.

“Everyone has some, somewhere…”

He slid the storybook back onto the desk on his way to the shelves along the walls,  his fingers pausing on the spine of a book that was, quite possibly, as wide as the crossguard on a sword before continuing further along.

Fenris leaned in closer to watch his progress, noticing a familiar sunburst on the book he’d bypassed.

“Transfigurations!”  Sebastian turned, his smile widening to the point the creases at the corners of his eyes deepened as he handed over one small slim red volume.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Fenris took the new book back to the couch, settling slowly down into a seat.  Then paused, eyes widening in surprise as Sebastian chose the seat opposite him, eyelids closing slowly as he leaned against the back.

“Hmm?”  One eyelid cracked a moment later.  ”What are you waiting for?”

“Aren’t you going to…” Fenris aimed a look at the open seat beside him.

“I have the Chant memorized.  I thought it might be easier for you to not have someone hovering over your shoulder for once.  I can hum a little, if you get stuck.”

That sliver of blue disappeared as he closed his eyes again, head leaning back with a soft sigh.  

Fenris had long since learned to keep his face still, regardless of what he was thinking.  But the line of the man’s throat and jaw was positively indecent, and for a moment Fenris wasn’t completely sure he could speak and keep his voice steady.

Learning to be free apparently also meant figuring out how to want things.

_I want him._

A him who would not appreciate Fenris avoiding his lessons in favor of licking his throat.  Well, he might appreciate, but he wouldn’t approve of the timing.  But later, perhaps…

“Could you sing first…”  Fenris had to swallow at the unexpected rasp in his own voice.  ”I could read along?”

Both eyes opened that time, as Sebastian leaned forward and considered the request.

“It could’na hurt, I suppose, t’know th’words?”  His voice was low, his brogue unexpectedly thick, as if he’d read the possibility of Fenris’  _other_  thoughts in his face.

It was odd, to realize someone knew him well enough to read his every expression, and that it wasn’t a weakness, it didn’t hurt.

Or it did, an ache in his chest, a tightness in his fingers, but it was a good feeling, like the first full breath of air upon breaking the surface after diving too deep into the ocean.

“Open th’book then.”  Sebastian smiled yet again,  _so many smiles, how do they come so easily to his face?_ “Won’ start ‘til you’re ready.”

It was more difficult than he’d expected, not to lift his eyes at the first soft whisper of Sebastian’s voice.  His accent almost disappeared when he sang, just the occasional hint beneath an ‘r’ or the long roll of vowels.  Fenris wanted to see the shape of his mouth, the lift of his jaw as he opened up his throat, his voice firm and steady and soft and warm.

But he kept his eyes focused on the page in front of him, even as he felt that warmth slowly spreading inside his chest.  Perhaps he managed a smile of his own.

>   
> _“Many are those who wander in sin,_    
>  _Despairing that they are lost forever,_    
>  _But the one who repents, who has faith_    
>  _Unshaken by the darkness of the world,_    
>  _And boasts not, nor gloats_    
>  _Over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight_    
>  _In the Maker’s law and creations, she shall know_    
>  _The peace of the Maker’s benediction._    
>  _The Light shall lead her safely_    
>  _Through the paths of this world, and into the next._    
>  _For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water._    
>  _As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,_    
>  _She should see fire and go towards Light._    
>  _The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,_    
>  _And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker_    
>  _Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”_  
> 

It was quiet when he was done, the sound of breathing barely audible under the low crackle of the fire, the whistle of wind through the hole in the roof a floor above them.

Fenris lifted his gaze from the book to see Sebastian staring at him, the slight lift of his chest visible beneath his shirt, as if he hadn’t quite relaxed back into his normal stance after singing.

“Would it be,” Fenris broke the silence first, his voice a low rumble in his chest, “inappropriate to admit that the Maker is not who comes to mind when I consider my beacon or my shield?”

“Is He not?”  Sebastian slid slowly out of his chair, his knees landing gently on the floor, and he started shifting across the narrow space between.  

“No.”  Fenris’ voice was only a whisper as Sebastian came to a stop just past his knees.  

“No?”  Sebastian’s hands paused, hovering just above Fenris’ thighs, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly.

_Yes._

Fenris mouthed his consent, no sound at all, as he set the book down beside him.  He closed his eyes, feeling a shiver start low in his stomach before spreading through his body as fingers slowly settled above his knees, the warmth of Sebastian’s hands soothing through his leggings as they slowly pushed up his legs.

“I must confess,” Sebastian spoke only when his fingertips had reached Fenris’ hips, his thumbs pushing inside his legs to spread them apart so he could move closer, “I am guilty of much the same… interpretation.”

Fenris tilted his head, encouraging, questioning, feeling another shiver at the brush of air against his ear when Sebastian continued.  ”You are my foundation, my sword.”

The soft caress of lips replaced the air against his cheek; fingers dug slightly into his legs.  Fenris turned his head, feeling each shift in his neck until he had moved just enough, and Sebastian’s lips met his.

_My beacon, my shield.  Mine._

_As I am his._


	5. logistics

They were arguing over the map.  It was a very good map, stretched out across the desk, carefully tucked under the thin strips that edged the top for just that purpose, a sextant settled down on one corner.  It really didn't deserve such harsh words thrown about above it.

And there were much better uses for that desk, after all.

She ought to know, she'd picked it out largely because it was very, very sturdy.

"Boys."  She leaned back against the door,  _oh look at that, the very well locked door, however did that happen,_ and smiled as they turned to look at her.  "I'm Captain.  Why are you arguing about the best place to restock supplies without me?"

Fenris' mouth twisted in amusement, Sebastian's shrug almost bashful and definitely hopeful and perhaps a little predatory.  Whatever they'd _really_ been arguing about was obviously less important than the speculative way they were both eyeing her bust and the way her current position highlighted the curve of her hips.

_Much better uses for that desk indeed._

She reached one hand up to the ties of her blouse and gave one, slow tug to unravel the knots, and that was really all the invitation anyone of them ever needed, nowadays, and there was, in very short order, a hot mouth kissing hers and another pair of hands peeling off her clothes, and the occasional delighted laugh as they got too many arms and legs and shirtsleeves slightly tangled.

Somehow that never got easier, not even with practice, but none of them ever minded in the slightest, because when the were done it was all skin and heat and the tension of muscles shifting as they touched and kissed and fingers dug into her back as a mouth licked and sucked her breasts.

Sebastian ended up on the bottom this time, as she shoved him back across the desk and crawled on top of him, nipping and kissing at his shoulders and neck and jaw, rubbing herself against his cock, hardening between them, sliding in her slick to rub against her clit and make her hum with pleasure.

Fenris grabbed her hips from behind, lifted her just slightly, fingers tightening as she shuddered, breath heavy as Sebastian lifted up against her weight, and then she felt Fenris' cock, slow and steady pushing inside her, his weight pushing her forward and down, and she couldn't help the broken moan as he filled her, as her clit rubbed hard against Sebastian's cock beneath her.

Fenris pulled back and in, still slow, still achingly steady, and she had no idea how they'd managed this particular position and her hips were going to hate her in a 'mark but _Maker_ it was _fantastic,_ the both of them so very hot, and hard, and skin and sweat and the sound Fenris made low in his throat, almost a hum, almost a groan, and the way Sebastian murmured their names and scrambled to find a grip on the edge of the desk to brace himself, his body shifting beneath her until he got his balance.

Only then did Fenris shift, his next thrust harder, faster, pushing her up along Sebastian's cock even as his filled her up from the inside.  It was _glorious,_ Fenris' hands and his voice behind her, his cock hard and full and rubbing inside her, over and over, her head pressed to Sebastian's chest and the back of her arms braced against the desk so her hands could grip his shoulders from behind, fingers digging into the skin just enough to make him moan.

Sebastian started rolling his hips beneath her in time to Fenris' thrusts, increasing the rub and the heat between them as she slid up and down his cock, and she shuddered, and clenched, and swore beneath her breath, wordless and ragged, and she could feel a catch in Fenris' rhythm.

Fenris hated coming first though, liked to feel them, see them, come apart around him, and she felt his weight shift, one hand drop off her hip and slide between her legs.  She had no idea what, precisely, he did down there, but Sebastian cried out and bucked beneath her, and it was too much for her, the shift and the pressure, and she felt herself fall, a hot sweet rush of tension and release, Sebastian spilling between them, heat against their skin, and then, only then, did Fenris let himself follow, three sharp jerks of his hips before he stilled and leaned down along her back.

Eventually they stood up.

Sebastian was rather fond of breathing, after all.  But they weren't in any particular hurry.

They had rather wrecked the map though, creased and torn and stained with the sort of fluids other people would probably not want to touch.  

"Guess we're going to Amaranthine for a new map, then, it's closest."


	6. The Chant of Light

Fenris always thought it sounded odd, when Sebastian sung a song he recognized in common rather than tevene, the melody just slightly off, the rhythm different, the meaning sometimes twisted beyond all recognition.

Until the first day he let himself stay in the Chantry long enough to hear him sing the Chant itself, serving as Chanter for Sister Phylias’ service.  For the first time it sounded better than he’d remembered, better than he’d imagined, as if, perhaps, the world was actually capable of the kindness promised in Sebastian’s eyes.


	7. blushing

She hadn’t thought she had it in her to care enough to be embarrassed; besides, she’d always thought it perilously close to shame, and she refused to allow that to happen to her ever again.

But he had the softest smile, and the greenest eyes, and he’d offered her his arm, right in front of everyone, as if it wasn’t possible to count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d voluntarily touched  _anyone_  in public … besides when he was killing them of course.

Kitten was giggling, and Hawke was hiding a smile, and Varric was carefully whistling towards the ceiling, and she could feel the flush across her cheeks as she took his hand; but it wasn’t shame that warmed her skin, not at all.


	8. inconvenient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE. FAKE MARRIANGE. ALL MY FAVORITE TERRIBLE/WONDERFUL ROMANCE TROPES.

"It’s Tevinter, you can’t really introduce yourself as a  _Vael_ , you’re all rather infamously pious.  Servants of the wrong Chantry and all."

"It’s not the -"

"They’ll think so."  Isabela lifted her eyebrows at him, smiling as he sighed.

"They’ll not be particularly fond of the pirate with the reputation for breaking up their slave ships, either."

Isabela started to open her mouth, then closed it again without saying a word.  He had a point.  "But Isabela is such a nice name, I’ve gotten rather fond of it."

Sebastian snorted, a hint of a smile curving his mouth.  

"Why did we agree to this again?"  Isabela leaned back in her chair, briefly considering using Sebastian’s lap as a foot-rest.  

"Hawke," Sebastian answered drily.

"Oh, right."  It was her turn to sigh.   _Stupid Hawke._

There was a brief silent, as they both considered the situation.   _Who are we supposed to be, then, if we’re not actually us?_ "Who goes to Minrathous for fun, anyways?"

"It’s apparently a very popular honeymoon and vacation destination. Tour the Towers. Watch an exhibition in the arena, see a play or an opera in the theatres.  That sort of thing."

"Really?"  Isabela leaned forward, the legs of her chair sliding a little across the floor with her shift in weight.  "Well then."

Sebastian blinked at her for a moment, before he figured out precisely why she was smirking at him.  "Oh. Oh no. That’s not a good, that’s really a very bad …"

"Aw, sweet thing, I promise I won’t bite."  He was flushing just the very slightest bit, a lovely rose color infusing his cheeks.  She sighed, leaning back again.  "Truly, Sebastian, do we have any other better ideas?  Because I’m willing to listen."

He started to open his mouth, and then sighed again.  "I suppose we do not, at that."

"Well then."  She waited, ‘til the tension in his shoulders eased, and that hint of a rueful smile curved his lips again.  "Give us a kiss then, husband mine?"


	9. storms and shelter

One of the worst things about living on land was the lack of proper storms.  No matter how the wind howled out at sea, in Kirkwall it was always just a whistle in the air, caught and battered against cliffs and towers and chains, and the ground was always much too solid beneath her feet.

Except on one particular mansion’s rooftop, high enough to be free of the cliffs and buildings, rickety enough to shake, just a little, water against her skin and wind tangling her hair and the whole world moved, just a little,  _almost as good as a deck shifting beneath her feet,_  except for the warm hands against her cheeks, and the soft lips against her mouth, and maybe, just maybe, there was something on land as good as the kiss of salt and sun.


	10. farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *AU: character death warning

Her face was too still.  Unnaturally so.  Her face was never still, always a smirk or a laugh or a whisper or a threat or a tease of heat lurking deep in her eyes.

Always so gloriously alive.

He’d never thought …

She’d survived her own dark past, raiders and Qunari and every impossible scrape Hawke had dragged them all into; she’d seemed positively immortal sometimes.

Only no one was, not even Isabela.

And he’d never  _said …_

She didn’t appreciate too much affection, didn’t want ties to bind or disappointments to catch, but still, he’d felt her presence keenly, delighted in her every laugh, watched her live her life with such exuberance, brutally honest even in her thievery, and he’d let a lie of omission settle between them, never once telling her of the joy she’d brought him, simply by existing.

Until she didn’t, and it was too late.

They’d scatter her ashes at sea, of course.  Nowhere else was fit for the Queen of the Eastern Sea to end her days.

But first …

He closed her eyes, unable to stand the still cool depths of them, when they should have been dark and flashing.  His hand rested against her cheek, still warm beneath his fingertips, as he kissed the lids, softly, in regret for all the things she’d never see, the things he’d never see reflected in them.

He’d never admitted that he’d failed entirely at keeping their  _affaire_  as casual as she’d desired, and while he could not regret his heart, he wished he’d had the spine to say it, just once.

_I love you, Isabela.  Farewell._


	11. more

She liked to tangle her hands in his hair when she kissed him, pull tight enough to edge the pleasure of her lips on his with just a hint of pain.

He liked his hands on her curves, his fingers perfectly fitted to the shape of her as he pulled her close.

A proper kiss was a test of endurance, the press of lips, the hint of tongue, the heat of shared breath and flushing skin.  How long could they last ‘til he moaned in the back of his throat or she slid her thigh up between his legs?  How long until the desperate need overwhelmed the pleasure of the kiss itself, until clothing was a torment, preventing the touch of skin on skin, until chests ached with want and they gasped for air and they  _wanted more?_   


	12. busted

"What are you doing?"  Merrill blinked as Fenris straightened very suddenly at the sound of her voice, a sharp jerk of his spine until he’d managed to get his shoulders further back than she’d ever seen before, and he was unexpectedly a finger’s width or two taller than usual.

"Nothing." His scowl was softer than usual, almost …  _embarrassed?_

"Well, obviously not  _nothing_  nothing, your toes are curling in the dirt and you’re standing next to Sebastian’s bag and if you just don’t want to tell me you should say that rather than nothing, because what if it’s important and I tell someone you weren’t doing anything and they tell Sebastian and he thinks you chose not to do whatever it is you’re  _actually_  doing and you two squabble about it?  That wouldn’t be fun at all."

Fenris blinked, and she tilted her head, surprised to realize the tips of his ears were very slightly flushing.  He really was embarrassed.  She’d never seen him do that before.  His mouth was very slightly open like he wasn’t sure what to say, and she’d never seen him do that either.  

 _Goodness._   Who knew Fenris could be just as awkward as she always seemed to manage?  That was slightly encouraging, actually, though she probably shouldn’t tell him that.

"Oh, is it a secret, is Sebastian not supposed to know?  Oh, I hope he likes his surprise, I won’t tell anyone, promise."  And with that she rocked up on her toes, and smiled and nodded at him, and turned back towards the main fireplace.

"Why -" Fenris’ rough rasp made her pause and turn back.  "Why do you think …" He trailed off, apparently still having trouble with words, his hand gesturing down towards Sebastian’s pack instead.

"Well, he’s your best friend, isn’t he?  Isabela keeps saying it would be a much better story if you were bending each other over your desk all the time, but I think it’s nice you’re friends.  You wouldn’t be doing something if he hadn’t asked, or it wasn’t something he’d like, right?"

His mouth gaped a bit more this time, and she had to swallow the sudden urge to giggle before he snapped it shut.  "I … hope so." He shrugged very slightly, and then his eyes narrowed as he looked at her.

"Why does that make you happy?   _We_  are not friends."

"That doesn’t mean I want you to be unhappy.  Besides, Sebastian and I have breakfast after his morning service sometimes, and he tries to tell me what the singing meant each day, though I still don’t think it makes much sense.  Not sure why he thinks it does, but it makes him happy, and sometimes I tell him a dalish story or two and he seems to like that, and he makes very good tea, did you know that?"

Fenris nodded very slightly, though there was still a line between his eyebrows as he looked at her.  

"Well then, good luck."  She smiled again, and this time he let her go.


	13. love

"Please," the slightest whisper against his skin, warm breath along the line of neck and jaw making him shiver, making fingers want to clench, and hold, and never ever let go.

 _Yes, anything, always, I am yours,_  all at once, thoughts tangled and hot, catching in his throat until he couldn’t speak, couldn’t swear, could only manage a whine of breath and the slightest of nods.

Which was apparently more than enough, a moan of  _oh, Fenris,_  against his ear, and that voice, thick and ragged and as desperate as he felt, made him close his eyes, press ever closer to the heat before him.

The press of teeth around the tip of his ear made his body jerk, and his eyes close, and he gave himself over to the hands splayed across his skin, the thigh pushing up between his legs, the pleasure and the passion and, above all things, the unexpected safety found in this room, this bed.

This love.


	14. inane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I adore epistolary fic
> 
> Fenris ... not so much

_The weather was clear today, no storm, strong wind, warm sun._

_That was good._

_There was fish for lunch._

_Not so good._

_Should reach Cumberland tomorrow._

_May have convinced Isabela to come with on visit up to Starkhaven._

_Might be good?_

venhedis

_I sound like an idiot.  I hate writing._ _So much effort, so little meaning.  Why can I never capture what I’m thinking on this damn paper?_

_In person is so much better._


	15. soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for [kit](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/110504194308)

He is lost when the door closes behind them, and he feels both as awkward as a youth and older than the stones that built the hexes, but her fingers brush his jaw, and he had always known she was beautiful, but it is the warmth in her eyes that undoes him.

She hadn’t been sure this was a good idea, but hell, what else is living but one bad idea after another? She knows she’s in trouble when he _laughs_ , and she can feel the rumble of it through her skin, through her chest, and her back arches and her eyes close and her smile widens and she wants to hear him do it again.

The catch in his breath when she wraps her fingers ‘round his cock is just about as good, however.

He can’t help the keen in his throat as she wraps her fingers in his hair and pulls, is more than happy to go where she wants him, do what she wants, to moan when her nails mark his chest, to rise up beneath her as she rides him, all heat and curves and dangerous glints of gold.

She takes what she wants from him, and gives him nothing, and everything, the grip of her thighs and the taste of her on his tongue and the sound of her voice, wordless and triumphant, as they fall together, sweat and rumpled sheets and tangled hair.

He’s still trying to remember how to breathe, wondering how his legs might work, when she decides to make him leave, when her weight shifts against him, the sudden sharp edge of her teeth as she bites his nipple.

He jerks, an awkward half a shout cracking out of his throat, and she laughs, her head falling back on the bed as she gasps for breath. He follows, and takes her breath in his mouth, her lips with his own, his thumb finding the line of her throat, feeling the last shudders of her laugh fading beneath his touch, feeling her chin lift as she meets his kiss.

Softly, _softly,_  sharing the shiver when their tongues slide together, when their bodies meet, again, _again,_  the press of chests or a knee bent or fingers curled or hands clasped, the sweet ache builds, and falls, and builds, and her eyes are open when she takes him deep inside, and she watches him, watches the way he watches her face, until she can’t anymore, eyes gone blind, but still she feels his breath, his hands, still she hears his breath, and hers, the whisper of his voice as he says her name. His weight stays with her, all through their long slow ride through warmth and darkness.

She doesn’t ask him to leave.


	16. breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [for twistedsinews](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/111038580538)

There’s the warmth of her laugh, the irresistible sort that makes him smile, even if he’s the one she’s laughing  _at._

There’s the warmth of rum or ale and the slam of glass against a warped wooden bar, or, once, the exquisite burn of Starkhaven whiskey shared beneath an achingly clear expanse of stars.

There’s the warmth in her eyes, when she hears what he says, or what he doesn’t, and smiles, because she can.

Because he needs a smile in his life, when he has forgotten how.

The warmth of skin on skin and breath shared and sweat building from the heat, the friction, but he is warmer, still, on those nights her arms wrap around his shoulders, and he can hear the beat of her heart beneath his head, and nothing is expected of either one of them but that they keep breathing.


	17. listen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [for cori](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/111046269733)

She would never admit to how many coppers she spread amongst the dockside brats and runners for the news, but she knew she’d need it.

He was doing  _too_ well, one of these days it would hit all at once, a year’s worth of grief bottled up behind blue eyes and a solid stance. He may have had a crap family, but they’d been his, and they were gone, and that hurt, no matter how much you tried to pretend it didn’t.

So she was ready, the day he followed Hawke with the barest tremble in his fingers, with eyes too wide, and a flare of nostrils as each breath pulled too deep.

She teased, and argued, and teased some more, until his eyes were red and his mouth was thin and he was too caught between anger and sorrow to think, and she slipped him down a few too many alleys until they spilled out in a courtyard behind an inn, and as he opened his mouth she pressed a finger to his lips.

"Shh, sweet thing." 

He wasn’t going to listen to her, she knew, but he didn’t have to.

He had to listen to the music, instead, a trio of minstrels down from the Vinmarks, fiddle and lap-harp and one sweet young soprano, a familiar lilt of an old half-dead language.

His eyes closed, and his shoulders shook with the force of his sigh.

She sat down on a handy crate, patted the spot beside her, and settled against his side to watch the sunset, and listen to the music from his home.


End file.
